Thoughtless Thursday
by Dakota Reynolds
Summary: Sequel to Wacky Wednesday. What happens after their night of drunken lust? HPDM, SLASH


Morning, if you could call it that, found our favorite bed-headed Gryffindor in the most curious of places.  He was, as he realized a few painful moments later, in the Prefect's bathroom.  His head throbbed so noisily that Harry was sure muggles outside of Hogwarts could hear it and would merely dismiss it as a stereo with the bass turned so loud it would knock the pictures off the wall.

            He sat up and realized he was sore all over, and especially in one of the most inconvenient and unconventional of places.

            Harry's hand wandered down to rub the cleft of his arse, which deftly ached, and he shockingly realized he had been lying on the marble floor of the bathroom in midwinter, sans pants, with a conjured blanket thrown over him.

            Complete and utter confusion clouded his brain, and he blushed so furiously that his smooth, tan face turned redder than Ron's ever had, and he quickly glanced around for his glasses, slipped them over his nose, and discovered a note written in cocky, loopy handwriting.

Potter-

            Splendid evening.  I'll come find you sometime today.

-Draco

More confused than ever, more bewildered than ever, Harry sprang up and stared dizzyingly around the room, which had begun to spin the moment he got to his feet.

            Memories from last night flashed before his eyes.  Draco on his lap, Draco coming toward him in the closet, Draco walking in on him wanking in the bathroom, Draco sucking on his neck, Draco surprising him in the Prefect's Bathroom, Draco…

            "Holy shit!" Harry exclaimed, as the awful truth flooded back to him.  Being ravished by his rival, the current Slytherin prince, son of a Death Eater who wanted him dead…maybe that hadn't seemed so bad _yesterday_, or _all night_, actually, but now, when he wasn't drunk but rather hung over, it bloody well did seem to be the epitome of _wrong_.

Now rightfully in his clothes and Invisibility cloak, Harry passed the third floor corridor on the way to the Gryffindor common room.  His head ached, his hips ached, his arms ached, his arse ached…

            Shamefully giving the password and climbing through the portrait hole, Harry started at the sight of the remnants of the party spewed all over the room.  Empty bottles and articled of clothing threatened to take over the floor, and torn curtains and tapestries hung dangerously off the walls.  He quietly climbed the staircase to the boys' dormitories, stepping over and around seventh year students from varying houses in varying states of undress.

            Opening the door, Harry came across his two best friends in the world, lying undeniably naked, underneath the covers of _his_ bed.  In their drunken stupor they had stumbled onto the nearest unoccupied bed, which was Harry's.  In all logic, this probably should have warranted emotional scarring, or at the very least, warranted the purchase of new sheets, but the fact of the matter was that Harry was too self-absorbed in his own dilemma.

            Honestly, his virginity had been taken, undoubtedly _several times_ by Mr. Draco Malfoy.  Mr. I'm-so-bad-you-must-all-worship-me-mere-mortals-and-peasants.  Mr. I'm-so-suave-and-cool-and-sexy-and-while-in-sex-I-do-this-unbelievable-thing-with-my-legs…

            Harry, shuddering, went to the bathrooms and took a scalding hot shower, trying to wash away the intoxicating feel of Draco's touches, caresses, gropes…

            He remembered the note, stashed in his pocket…Draco looking for him later…wanting an encore, a repeat performance?  Harry wasn't so sure his drunken memory was completely accurate, but he was pretty sure that that night with Draco was the most amazing, incredible thing to ever happen to him…he just wasn't sure if he wanted it to continue, if it should continue, or if Draco thought the whole thing was a mistake.  What if Draco hadn't enjoyed it much, at all?  What if he had just done it to say he had nailed the Boy-Who-Lived?  Like he was some sort of goal to aspire to, an Everest of sorts.

            Harry both looked forward and dreaded the prospect of seeing Draco later…anxiously felt both so much that they gave him neurasthenics and he spent the rest of the morning (which was about an hour) in the bath, debating what, if anything, he should do.

It was now nearly dinner, and after showering and heading down to the common room to sit moodily by the fire for a while, waiting for Ron and Hermione to wake up and go down to the Great Hall for lunch, Harry was still coming to terms with Draco and the events leading up to and including their several shags.

            He had looked for the Suave Slytherin at lunch, and saw no sign of him.  He had frequented the halls, library, Prefect's bathroom, and quidditch pitch, though it was below freezing outside.  No sign of him.

            Harry began to have severe doubts about Draco.  He was supposed to come talk to him…where was he?  Was this a do-and-go sort of thing?  Was that it?  Would he never experience Draco again?

            Sod it all, Harry gave up.  He would just sit here moodily by the fire like he had this morning, sit there all night, and the next day, and the day after that, until time progressed and he would become an old, ornery man whom people of all ages avoided like the plague due to his ready supply of bitter comments meant to deflate happiness like pathetic little balloon animals.

During dinner, which Hermione had dragged Harry down to, despite the fact that he wanted desperately to do nothing, nothing at all…well, actually, he wanted to do _someone_…anyway, Hermione relentlessly dragged Harry to dinner, and made him eat something, though Harry couldn't be bothered to recall what.  Ron and Hermione, after last night's rendezvous, appeared to be changed.  They sat exceedingly close during dinner, and had been sharing the same overstuffed chair in the common room for the better part of the afternoon, appearing to do nothing but just _be_ with each other.

            To tell the truth, it was increasingly nauseating.

            Why, after all those years of tension, all those years of fighting, all those years of denying feelings, had they finally, finally shagged last night?  And why had that seemed to have such a deep effect on them?  And _why_ were they not even bothering to talk about it?

            That last paragraph was talking about Ron and Hermione, by the way.  In case you applied it to anyone else who had had sex last night.  I shall continue it with _And why had it seemed that everything was the way it was meant to be, despite all of that?_

            Harry fumed silently, as he sat there staring across the table at his two best friends who ate in silence, but once in a while giving each other a small, secret smile.  Draco Malfoy was the most thoughtless, insensitive git on the planet, as he had not yet talked to Harry, not even sent him a note…he said he would…Harry didn't know where their relationship, if you could call it that, was going, he didn't know what he meant to Draco, if anything, he didn't know when, if ever, Draco would come talk to him…He didn't know a lot of things, but those bothered him the most right now.

            What was he, another conquest?  A street whore?  Someone who didn't matter?

            Just then, Draco walked through the doors into the Great Hall, gracefully.  He sailed over to the Slytherin table, gracefully.  He glanced over at Harry, who had been staring at him from the moment his silver-blond head came over the threshold, and gave him the most seductive look.  All gracefully, of course.

            Harry promptly fell out of his chair onto his already sore arse, in a manner quite the opposite of gracefully.


End file.
